Gift With Purchase
by Andi Horton
Summary: One of these days, Rachel thinks, she will get an assignment with a comfortable costume. An assignment where Sark doesn't show up to ruin everything. One of these days. Just not today. Post series finale, Rachel&Sark banter and UST.


Gift With Purchase

O0O0O

"There you are, Madam; a fine choice. Thank you for choosing Mignonne; we appreciate your business."

Rachel kept the bland salesclerk's smile tacked in place until the short, dimpled woman disappeared out of the boutique with her blush-pink bag in hand. Then she sighed, let her spine relax a fraction and eased one foot out of the gleaming black pump that had been pinching it all day. This was the first time she had ever worn this particular pair, and it had taken all of half an hour moving about the shop in them to make her realise it would also be the last.

"She bought it, did she?" Karen, the other salesclerk, looked up from a pile of dainties to snort in deep, abiding scorn for the follies of their latest customer. "Popping right out of it in the dressing room, she was. I said, nothing wrong with a size up, Madam, we want to look our best for Mr. van Vorten, don't we? But no, she just couldn't believe she wouldn't fit into the size she wore on their first anniversary."

"Well, wouldn't you like to think you would?" Rachel dug the sales book out from under the counter. "If it were one of us, I think we would. I know it's sort of sad, but it's also sort of –well– sad. That she's buying things like that, and her husband probably doesn't . . . well. Anyway. I think it's sad."

Karen, who had been working at Mignonne much longer and had the appropriately jaded view to accompany such a lengthy term of employment, merely rolled her eyes and took the sorted unmentionables to the appropriate tables. This left Rachel to make a careful notation in the ledger of the sales amount, use the calculator to determine her commission, and enter the figure in the appropriate column.

She had to admit, she was having fun. The customers were a bit of a bore, but the store itself she enjoyed; the precision of the record keeping, the meticulous layout of the store itself, she liked it all. It suited her. It almost seemed like a vacation, really; in fact, it seemed almost wrong to have been working at Mignonne for over a month now, as per Dixon's instructions, and so far she had seen not even the slightest sign of the cyber-terrorism for which the store was supposed to be a front.

"We've received a tip," he'd explained during briefing, "that it's being used to pass information to select clients. We're not sure how, but we are certain it is this store. It was almost going under three years ago, but then a buyer swooped in and turned the place around."

"And that's suspicious?" Rachel had been politely incredulous.

"Not in itself. But last week we picked up a man trying to haggle a price on a jump drive with ten gigs' worth of credit card information on it, and after we applied a little pressure, he admitted he'd picked it up from a friend as a . . . product sample. The friend mentioned this store."

"Mignonne."

"Yes. It's possible the owner herself is completely unaware of what's going on; it's also possible that she's a figurehead herself, and the real power is somebody else. We don't know. But we do know that this credit card information is simply a . . . catalogue, of sorts. A taste of what they're able to provide. A . . . gift with purchase, if you will. The real product is what we're really after; something much more sensitive. They've got information of all sorts; transactions, private information . . . the sort of information that the right buyers would pay millions to get their hands on."

"And you want me to find out . . . what? Who the buyers are? The sellers?"

"No," Dixon had been firm on that point, "we simply want you to find out how they're passing the information and, if possible, to confiscate their current . . . supply. It's done through the store's daily business; that much we're fairly sure of. It would make sense to assume that it's being smuggled out in the products themselves, except . . . well," and he had coughed, and Rachel knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that if it had been at all within Marcus Dixon's emotional capability to blush, he would have.

So she had had to learn for herself why it was unlikely that the store was selling jump drives concealed in their products, and she had certainly seen that soon enough. There was barely enough room in a Brazilian panty for the woman it was meant to hold, let alone a place to conceal any sort of electronic equipment.

Now, after nearly a month of having to help women of dimensions far beyond those ever meant to be contained within a _regular_ pair of underwear select those same microscopic bits of lace, she was beginning to have a new respect for their capacity to accommodate. She had not, however, changed her mind that they were unable to conceal the sort of thing she was meant to watch out for, so the only time she touched them was when she absolutely had to. They weren't as much fun to organise as some of the other products, anyway.

Now, for example, she had wedged her throbbing foot back into the abusive shoe and wobbled carefully over to reverently straighten the dainty maidenform display mould to better show off the scrap of silk that clothed it. She liked this work; the precision of it. It made her feel useful, skilled . . . far more competent, certainly, than she often felt when she was doing her 'real' work. Now, stepped back, she felt a little twinge of accomplishment simply because she knew that the display looked better the way she had arranged it.

"You finished over there?" Karen, her own sorting done, had looked over to Rachel's side of the store. "I've got my break coming up in five; thought I'd step out a little early. Cover for me?"

"Uh- sure," Rachel nodded, still inspecting the display along the far wall. "No problem. It's been slow anyway."

So Karen stepped out, and Rachel wobbled over to stand behind the counter. She managed it for all of two minutes before she finally decided that enough was enough; so maybe her trainers didn't go as perfectly with her smart black dress as the pumps did; at least they didn't make her want to cut off a toe to get a little relief. So she hobbled into the tiny cloak area behind the counter, and had just eased into the blissful relief of extra arch support when she heard the dainty bell above the door tinkle.

"Karen?" she called, "That you?"

"Sorry, no," a faint voice filtered through the curtain that hid the store from view, and Rachel cast a sorrowful look at her grateful feet.

"Now I have to take you off," she told the trainers sadly, and it was with deep regret that she changed them back to shoes for which, she was beginning to realise, she had developed a deep and abiding hatred.

Then, with set teeth and fiery ankles she stood, drew back the curtain, started to cross the threshold into the sales area; and stopped dead.

Julian Sark was standing in front of the display she had just straightened, hands in his pockets as he squinted dubiously at the arrangement on the counter.

Although she froze in the process of entering the store, he must have heard her because even though he didn't look up, he addressed her.

"Tell me," he frowned, scrutinizing the display, "do they all come in this . . . style? Or do you have something with a bit more-" he looked up and broke off abruptly. For just a moment they both stared at one another, neither moving, until he finally finished his question: ". . . shape."

Rachel swallowed, squared her shoulders, and tried to sound nonchalant (and not as if she wanted to chew her feet off at the ankles) as she answered him.

"It wouldn't suit you."

It clearly took him a moment to realise what she'd said, but once it had registered she almost thought she saw him start to smile. If he did, though, he covered it quickly, and there was no mistaking the way his hand was hovering near the opening of his blazer. Rachel swallowed, tried to ignore the way her ankles were sending deep, lancing bolts of pain up into her calves, and struggled to affect an expression at least a fraction as icy as Sark's.

"Let me guess. You're here as a very . . . _special_ buyer."

"Well," Sark rocked back a bit on his heels, "that all depends on what special services are offered."

Rachel blinked, and momentarily lost that chilly expression she was working so hard to maintain. Then it was back tenfold, and she drew herself up to her fullest height in those _bloody – awful – shoes_ as she faced him.

"That," she said as sternly as she could when all she wanted to do was to stand knee-deep in a bucket of ice water, "was . . . uncalled for."

Oh great, not only did the shoes remove her ability to walk properly, they also apparently took away her ability to speak like anything but a schoolteacher. Flustered by this unforeseen side effect, she shifted slightly, attempting to ease the ever-increasing agony racing up her ankles. In that moment her attention flickered for just an instant, and Sark didn't hesitate; he was across the floor, drawing his gun and grabbing her around the neck, and Rachel found herself wondering if it was wrong that, for just one moment, she was relieved that her own feet were no longer bearing the brunt of her weight.

Then sanity reasserted itself, and she kicked both the shoes right off her feet. If she was going to face Sark (though right now she wasn't facing him at all; more like dangling in his grip with her stocking feet pedalling in the air, trying to find a purchase) then she decided it wasn't going to be in those shoes.

No sooner had her shoes hit the floor than did Sark pull her closer to the shadows of the curtain, out of direct view of anybody passing by the shop outside. When he spoke, he sounded slightly vexed, but not exceptionally put out.

"I was led to believe this area was secure."

"Better check your sources then," Rachel muttered, and Sark took her suggestion with a consideration that suggested she had told him to take an umbrella with him when he left.

"I shall, I assure you. But you- what are you doing here?"

"Probably has a lot to do with why you're here," Rachel said evasively, still attempting to find a place to put her feet that would allow her the leverage she needed to twist free. "Unless you really think the fall La Perla collection will flatter your figure and bring out your eyes."

"As amused as I am by your persistent belief that I am here to purchase an item for myself, I really don't have the time to spend on . . . banter. Are you here alone?" She felt him shift in place behind her as he scanned the store interior.

"Do you _see_ anybody else here?" One foot was braced against the doorway; the moment she got the next one onto something equally solid, she'd be in more of a position to dictate the terms of conversation herself. For now, though, she continued to squirm as he made his reply.

"You know as well as I do that it's the unseen ones you have to worry about." He cast another quick look around and then apparently decided he would be safer if they were both a little less conspicuous, because he started to pull her through the curtain, into the cloak area.

It was just as they crossed the threshold she found her purchase; both feet braced firmly inside the frame she kicked off and rammed her head back into his chin. They overbalanced and went thudding to the floor in a tangled heap, and the moment they landed Rachel rolled and rose onto her feet. No sooner was she upright than did Sark's own ankle connect with hers; her feet went flying again and she caught wildly for something to steady herself, but all she came up with was a fistful of curtain. It held her for only a second before the filmy material gave way and, amidst the sound of ripping cloth, she went crashing down on top of him and the curtain slithered down over them both.

"Owww."

"Indeed."

On the bright side, Rachel thought, as she flailed about in the curtain and struggled to find a way out of the cocoon, Sark wasn't able to reach for his gun; it was pinned beneath her and digging sharply into one rib. It was hurting quite a bit, actually, and for a moment her only consolation was that it must be every bit as uncomfortable for him as it was for her; however, this observation was not entirely borne out by the way he seemed to be more hindering than helping her in her attempts to escape the suffocating curtain. Her growing suspicion that he actually wasn't trying to help at all was only confirmed by his next words

"You know," he observed almost conversationally, "it's rather cosy down here, don't you find?"

She didn't. Her ribs were aching, her ankles still twinged, and she had banged her knee as she fell. Coordination was apparently not the order of the day.

"Shut up," she huffed, and finally located an opening in the voluminous material. With a little gasp of relief she squirmed free, and had all of two seconds to catch her breath before Sark, too, was on his feet and reaching for the gun that she could still feel in the persistent ache between her fourth and fifth ribs.

She had all of half a second to slam his wrist against the gaping doorframe before he brought the gun up to bear, and she took full advantage of it. He didn't drop the gun, though; instead he used his free hand to catch her neck and drive her back against the opposite wall. No longer hampered by her shoes, she brought her knee up into his side and he fell back just enough to let her pursue the advantage it gave her, slamming him against the wall at his own back.

"You know," he observed between laboured breaths, "we really must stop meeting like this. It's getting a little old, don't you think?"

"Then stop _following_ me," she challenged, just before he pulled the same move on her she had on him; a knee slammed into the base of her ribcage that knocked her back and bent her double. She saw the gun coming up again, but this time she was ready; her skirt fluttered, there was the barest flash of a black garter and one of the dainty ribbons that connected it to the belt, and then the delicate little weapon she had kept tucked within the ridiculous undergarment every day since she began her assignment was in her hand, aimed at his heart.

"Well, that's new," Sark allowed, and they faced each other, breathless, dishevelled, bruises already forming beneath the skin.

She'd cut his lip, she saw.

"So," she swallowed at last, ever-so-cautiously straightening up to her full height, the delicate little revolver still held steady and pointing at his chest, "why don't you tell me what you really came here for, then?"

O0O0O

"It's the new age in cyber-terrorism," he explained. They were still in the cloak area but they were now seated and Sark's lip was no longer trickling. Rachel's feet were snugly ensconced in her trainers, and they might have just been a pair of friends catching up were it not for the weapons they still held and aimed at one another.

"Dixon said that," she nodded, "but he didn't entirely explain it. Is it the usual? Credit card information, bank passwords . . . that sort of thing?"

"That's only the start of it," Sark shook his head. "Encrypted websites; personal passwords, highly sensitive government documents . . . you know how a Trojan horse works, of course."

Rachel nodded impatiently; of course. Sark, too, nodded, and went on.

"Well, the information that they send, most of it is the result of basic keystroke monitoring. Of course such a program will give you the bank and credit card information, but it also gives you feedbacks of all the documents typed, e-mails sent and received . . . personal things. Some of them highly personal. And supposing that these Trojan horses were selectively implanted on computers belonging to the people with the most to lose. They would be . . . fantastically easy to blackmail."

"And that's what you wanted to buy," Rachel's eyes narrowed. "You were going to buy the information that would let you blackmail somebody . . . who?"

"Oh, come now," Sark's eyes lit with muted amusement; possibly even enjoyment. "You can't possibly expect me to-"

"Oh?" Rachel's gun hand held steady. "Can't I?"

Sark's eyes rested only briefly on the gun, then even more briefly on the location of the holster from which she had drawn it, before returning to rest almost benignly on her face. Rachel pursed her lips.

"Come on; you've certainly been chatty enough so far. Why won't you just admit that you came here to buy one of these . . . jump drives, or memory cards, or whatever they're selling them on, and be done with it?"

Even more amused, Sark inclined his head.

"I'll grant you I've been more . . . forthcoming than is my wont. The reason I've hesitated to answer you is I doubt very much you'll believe me."

"Try me."

Sark shrugged; a sort of 'as you wish' gesture that irritated Rachel more than it probably should have. She couldn't help it, though; she got the distinct feeling she was being humoured.

"Very well. I'm not here to purchase anything, Rachel; I'm here to steal them. All of them."

"Why shouldn't I believe that?" Rachel demanded, and Sark looked even more entertained.

"I haven't told you why, yet, you know."

"All right, then," she spoke with forced patience, "why?"

"Because," and here, for some reason, she got an impression of genuine sincerity shining through the veneer of condescending superiority, "one of them is . . . especially personal for me."

Rachel's eyes darkened with suspicion.

"You mean one of them . . . is _yours_?"

If she didn't know it was physically impossible for him, she'd have sworn Sark cringed.

"You are remarkably astute," he murmured, and couldn't quite seem to meet her widening eyes.

"You mean you- so one of them, somebody could blackmail . . . I mean, if he wanted to, he could find out something about you, and- and-"

"Yes, quite," Sark nodded curtly, putting an end to her stammering. "Now, you understand why it's so important that neither of us be found here?"

She did. She was, however, loathe to take her gun off him, for the simple reason that he didn't seem about to take his off her. Both of them, though, were becoming increasingly aware of the passing time. Karen would be back from her lunch break at any moment, and then all bets were off. There was no way Rachel would be able to explain the torn curtain, the horrific mess they'd made of the cloak area, or the armed blonde man at whom she was aiming the pearl-handled revolver she carried in her garter. There were just some things that defied a cover story.

Ultimately, the decision was reached that they both had to get out of there as soon as was humanly possible, but neither was willing to leave the other there to find what they'd come in after. It took them only five more tense minutes of evasion and verbal barbs to discover that neither of them knew where the information was stored, nor how it was being sold, at which point panic finally did seem to be a viable option.

"You don't _know_?! How can you not _know_?! You came here to _get_ it!" Rachel, struggling to keep her gun aimed more or less at Sark, was pawing frantically through drawers she already knew contained no false bottoms of any kind.

"And you have been employed here exactly _how_ long?" Sark fired back, his own gun pointed approximately in her general direction as he struggled to ascertain that the display tables didn't come apart. "I was only told the phrase that would assure me a sample of the merchandise; nothing more."

"And what phrase is that, _exactly_?" Rachel spat, slamming the door shut in a fit of frustration.

"You already heard it. Before I knew it was you, I said it- about the . . . undergarment not being exactly what I was looking for, and did you have anything with a little more shape?"

Sark went on digging, but Rachel stopped, suddenly aware that there was something here she should know.

"You were meant to say that about an- um- that undergarment, in particular? A- um . . ." she blushed and hated herself for it. She'd seen the man naked, for crying out loud- "that one?"

"No," Sark finally looked up from wrenching at the table legs, "I was told I could ask it concerning anything along the far wall. That one, there," and he nodded toward the one in question.

Rachel, risking a quick glance, saw that the display was one comprised entirely of whimsical bits of brassiere and barely-there corset-style supports. Her eyes widened just a bit.

"Oh!" she said, before she could stop herself, and Sark's eyes narrowed.

"You know where they are," he accused, and she decided that rather than waste time trying to deny it, she could just say yes, she did, and get it over with.

"It's something that they train us for," she explained, keeping one eye and the gun on him as she crossed the floor to a series of racks. "If anybody asks for anything with more shape, we're supposed to show them these."

"And they are, exactly . . ?" Sark had followed her and was staring dubiously at the hideous bits of puffy material hanging from the display. Rachel swallowed hard and struggled to find that salesgirl voice as she answered.

"They're – umm – water bras. Sort of. A . . . variation. There's a kind of – umm – gel inside them, and it's meant to give – ummm – shape." Well, so there were a lot more "umm"s in there than her usual sales pitch involved. At least she'd gotten through it without melting into a little puddle of embarrassment and blisters.

Sark certainly didn't seem to notice her discomfort; he was instead grabbing one of the bras off the rack and ripping into it with one hand. The seams split far more easily than they should have on a quality garment, and the gel pack that fell out into his hand unfolded to reveal a tiny memory card nestled in the centre.

Rachel's eyes widened and she stared at the chip; it was a split second too late that she realised the muzzle of her revolver had dipped just a fraction, and that Sark was moving, grabbing her wrist, twisting, forcing her to drop it. She set her teeth but didn't cry out, even when the muscles in her wrist screamed and she felt everything in her arm approach the breaking point.

She did, however, drop the gun. And when he brought the butt of his down on the back of her neck, she dropped, too.

O0O0O

She came around not long after, but in a much different position than she'd been when he knocked her out. They were no longer in the main area but rather the discreet little dressing area reserved for the patrons of the store. He'd put her in one of them, and while she was under had apparently tied her up with a set of stockings from the discount bin near the back of the store. Her eyelids fluttered, then flew wide open just as he finished gagging her with the tattered remnants of the bra he'd destroyed.

She supposed it would be futile to try to tell him he had to pay for it first.

"I appreciate your help, Rachel," he murmured, checking the knots and stepping back to look down at her with courteous detachment. "I'm afraid I'll need to take them all with me, now that I'm here; I mean, one can hardly pass up such an opportunity when it presents itself. I'm only sorry," and here he did, indeed, sound genuinely apologetic, "that we've not time to take advantage of any . . . other opportunities that might interest us."

That certainly deserved the muffled, vehement warbling it got; she glared up at him, and he smiled benignly back.

"I've no doubt you'll work yourself free in time to be long gone before the theft is discovered; I'll leave this charming little toy right here for you," he placed her little revolver on the shelf beside his head, "and . . . I suppose I'll be seeing you."

Then he headed back into the main area of the store, her furious, garbled shrieks following him, and went straight to the racks she had indicated and began to systematically rip open each of the undergarments, extracting the chips and putting them in one of the soft, rosy little bags he'd found behind the counter. Only when he was certain he had gotten every chip did he head for the door, and step out onto the street.

He had made it all of five steps when he saw him on the opposite corner, waiting for the light to change; the large and thoroughly unpleasant man who had been responsible for the whole mess in the first place; the one who had seen fit to gloat to Sark that certain information was about to be placed on the open market.

The power behind the shop behind him.

The shop where he had considerately left Rachel Gibson trussed up like an early Christmas package.

Sark stopped, ground his teeth, and hated how he wasn't even going to hesitate.

He retraced his steps into the store, muttering self-depricating remarks the whole way.

O0O0O

Rachel had almost worked free when he showed up again; without preamble he sliced through the discount nylons and hauled her to her feet.

"We need to move. Quickly," he informed her, and she could only blink at him as she spat out a bit of silk, and threw the gel pack on the floor.

"Wh-what . . . why did you-"

"Unless you truly want to find out," he spoke tersely, "you'll follow me and won't waste time with questions."

Wide eyed and mute, Rachel nodded and followed him out the door. As she followed him, though, one hand flew up to the shelf and scooped her gun off it. Holding it at her side she followed him out the front; a shout was all the warning they had before two shots rang out and they took to their heels, racing down the sidewalk, crossing at the next corner moments before the traffic picked up and all but flying down a side street. Only once they were certain they were not being pursued did they stop, panting, and try to catch their breath.

Rachel caught hers first, and she had her gun out and waiting when Sark looked up.

"The bag," she told him quietly. "Put it on the ground, and take five steps back."

He eyed her, as if trying to gauge the likelihood that she would actually follow through. Apparently what he saw was not reassuring.

"This is my thanks, then, is it?" he wanted to know as he did as she said. "I come back, save you from any number of indignities and almost certain death, and this is how you repay me?"

"No," Rachel was almost tranquil as she stepped forward and scooped up the bag, her eyes on him at all times, "this is your thanks."

Then, before he could even quite comprehend what it was she was doing, she had knelt, and stuffed the whole thing down a sewer opening set in the curb.

"What are you- Rachel!"

"You can't have them. I can't let you do that. But . . . I don't see why anybody else has to have them, either. Give it five minutes," she advised, "and all that delicate circuitry . . . well, you know what sort of chemicals they use to treat sewage. I doubt even the plastic will make it."

He stared at her in utter disbelief. Rachel, for her part, smiled just a little bit. Then, with great deliberation, she holstered her gun and walked toward him.

"Thank you," she made it sound almost like a confession. "Thank you for not leaving me there."

Then her lips were on his; just the lightest brush of skin on skin, and he smelled something light, and sweet. He hadn't even realised he'd closed his eyes until he opened them, and she was gone.

O0O0O

O0O0O

This was written two years ago and I have only just now gotten around to posting it. What can I say, except for . . . oops? Anyway, it was originally written for a post-finale ficathon challenge; the person who requested it wanted snarky Rachel/Sark banter, UST and Rachel in a black garter belt, so this is what came of it.

_Alias_ is not certainly mine, but sometimes I will get very tired or jazzed on caffeine and have been known to admit, in those less-than-perfectly-inhibited states of mind, that I miss watching it. So sue me. Or don't, actually- that's kind of the point of the disclaimer, isn't it?


End file.
